


Death Stranding

by feusgan



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: git rekt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feusgan/pseuds/feusgan
Summary: Alaska, 2005. Following through on some heavy implications at the end of TTP. Boy howdy is this ever clunky but I'm tired of looking at it. The title's a cop-out, I have no wit left. Submitted for Ocelhira Week 2016 "Date" prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

Miller stood in front of the bay window looking out onto the Alaskan horizon. Something wasn’t right.

It had started with the car, mostly; there was something generally _off_. Small town with no tourist value even if it wasn’t the fuckoff depths of winter; too far from any main roads to be passed through by anyone out of town. The lack of rust on the fenders, its adherence to the local speed limit when most vehicles passed at up to twenty clicks above, the way it managed to _just_ miss the timing to pass for commuter traffic. Recon, done almost cleverly. He hadn’t expected this. Subtlety wasn’t usually _his_ style. All that into consideration, any minute trace of surprise had vacated the premises long before he turned around to find _him_ lingering on the other side of the room. He’d heard him sneak in, of course, but it was moreso the overall premise of the thing.

“That time, is it?” Miller asked, turning back to the window. A grunt of affirmation followed. “Gonna gun me down in my own house? I’m not _completely_ estranged from my family; a pile of gore isn’t quite how I’d like the kid to remember me.” He kept scanning the horizon, trying to take it all in before-

“I did take that into consideration.”

“Hand-to-hand, then? I can’t promise I won’t fight back; I think I have the upper hand if we’re taking agility into account.”

“Gas, actually. Though our sparring is likely much less one-sided than it was in the Seychelles,” Ocelot mused.

“Here to knock me on my ass and smoke me out?” _(The dogs are in the run out back, who’s gonna…? Maybe-… David-…? No.)_

“Seuvofloraine. It’s already in the central air system. I have no intention to fight you; we’re too old for honor and glory bullshit, Miller.”

“ _Hm_.” He scanned his body for anything amiss. Nothing yet. Must be a low concentration ( _Nadine’s gonna kill me deader than I am already. Catherine-_ fuck _.)_

“I _was_ going to just place the canisters and leave it at that, but being a bit more personal seemed like the polite thing to do.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Miller, but he understood. Honoring your kill, or whatever. He used to give a brief speech about it to every few batch of new recruits at Foxhound. Ocelot began to step forward, raising both hands in a gesture of ceasefire when Miller whipped around in response to the sound of spurs heading vaguely in his direction. Ocelot, despite the years, was much the same person as he’d ever been. Twin revolvers holstered, bandolier in place, silver hair over one shoulder, dressed impractically, his style shifted more toward gentleman than cowboy. There was some currently-indespensible relief for Miller in the fact that some things never changed. Ocelot took the liberty of inviting himself onto the nearest couch. Miller’s peripheral vision began to warp. He stumbled slightly.

“Sit. You might last longer.” Ocelot jerked his head, beckoning. Miller reluctantly obliged, either unwilling or unable to look him in the face. Ocelot held eye contact without issue. Pressed for time, Miller stammered out the main question that had been making cinders in the back of his mind since the dissolution of Diamond Dogs.

“How is he- _The_ _Phantom_ , not-“

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“V’s in Zanzibarland, last I heard.”

“After everything he put him through…”

“Not everyone has your capacity to sustain a grudge, Miller. Given the circumstances at the time, however, it was probably the easiest thing for you to hold,” Ocelot spoke idly, without a shred of regard for the weight his words held. Pain seared through the phantoms living in Miller’s prosthetic limbs.

“I can’t beleive you’re going to be the last person I ever see,” Miller groaned _(Should I tell him where the Will and Testament are?)_

“Fitting, isn’t it? Although, we _did_ talk about this, after-“

“Yeah,” Miller barked. Ocelot chuckled. Miller’s proprioception started to go, followed by most of his auditory processing.

“Less than an hour. Less than half, most likely,” Ocelot warned _(_ Of course _he’s immune.)_

“Legal documents are in the-“

“I know,” _(Did he actually just purr?)_ “everything’s accounted for, _Kaz_.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

“Anger, hm? You’re progressing through the stages fairly quickly. Interesting.”

“Grief isn’t linear, asshole.” _(I’m trying to die with dignity but you’ll probably tell everyone I went out like a coward- I can’t breathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathe breathe keep breathing)_

“The only thing that needs sorting,” Ocelot continued, ignoring him, “is what you want this to look like. I can shove you onto the floor so it looks like you collapsed, or we can make it seem like you died in your sleep. It’s your decision.”

Post-mortem was on the further axis of things orbiting in Miller’s head. He let his head fall into his hands. No use in keeping up appearances.

“Are you not feeling this?” He asked, incredulous.

“A little,” he admitted as he stood, suddenly. He knelt to grab Miller’s legs and hoisted his failing body to lie flat on the couch, purposely stroking his left calf in the process,

“So the arm isn’t just for show. I’m sure it scares the recruits shitless. You told me you didn’t want bionics, years ago, but I suppose now that you don’t have The Phantom to upstage-“

“Shut up,” Miller groaned through gritted teeth. Ocelot knelt again, too close, his breath on Miller’s face.

“The Phantom is dead,” he whispered, menacing. “You wouldn’t beleive who did the handiwork. You’ve made quite the soldier out of David,” he pulled away, smirking. More pain flushed through his prosthetics before he realized- this was the same tone of voice he’d heard countless times in Ocelot’s interrogations. _(Inducing panic for faster inhalation? I thought manipulating a dying man would be below you. This is a new level of depravity.)_ Coherent sentences were beyond his ability. A scoff had to suffice. The meaning was clear, despite.

“It’s not a lie,” _(for once,)_ “are you ready to truly experience life outside of heaven?” Ocelot towered over him, arms spread in a theatrical gesture. _(Well fuck.)_

_(It’s not like you won’t be right there with us, in time.)_

Miller was struggling to stay conscious.

_(Should I die hating you?_

_Or were you just another cog in his plans? Another corpse he’d stepped over to-)_

Ocelot’s hands came to rest on his head, his arm.

“‘ _Big Boss can go to hell_ ’. Did you know you’d be there to meet him, Kazuhira?”

Blurred grey eyes and white hair hovering above him were the last things he saw before his vision went.

He heard a sigh. Felt the hand on his forearm slide down into his palm. Gloved fingers smoothing long strands off of his clammy forehead. A baritone hum vibrating through his chest as his whole body spasmed against Ocelot, the tune distantly familiar,

 

_Oh no, not me_

_I never lost control_

 

One of the few things you were always right about, Boss.

 

Ocelot stepped out of the house to remove the canisters and clear his lungs, but waited until nightfall to make the trek across the open field to a truck concealed behind the treeline. Manoeuvring through the packed-down trails gave him time for reflection, had there been anything to reflect on. A job he’d known was coming. Mission complete. Nothing more to it.

 

_Another day in a war without end._


	2. Death Stranding [REDUX] [New Content] [With Sap This Time]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic needed reworking anyway. Also here's the sappy version.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ari, who has taught me almost everything.

Miller stood in front of the bay window looking out onto the Alaskan horizon. Something, subtly but staunchly, wasn’t right.

It had started with the car, mostly; there was something generally  _off_. Small town with no tourist value even if it wasn’t the fuckoff depths of winter with snow piling up over the firewood cellar window; too far from any main, or paved, roads to be passed through by anyone out of town. The lack of rust crawling up from the wheel wells and fenders, its adherence to the local speed limit when most booked it at up to twenty clicks above, the way it managed to just miss the timing to pass for commuter traffic. Recon, done almost cleverly. He hadn’t expected this. Subtlety wasn’t usually  _his_  style. All that into consideration, any minute trace of surprise had vacated the premises long before he turned around to find  _him_  lingering on the other side of the room. He’d heard him sneak in, of course, but it was moreso the overall premise of the thing.

“That time, is it?” Miller asked, turning back to the window. A grunt of affirmation followed. “Gonna gun me down in my own house? I’m not completely estranged from my family; Catherine’s never been a fan of gore,” He kept scanning the horizon, trying to take it all in before-

“I did take that into consideration.”

“Hand-to-hand, then? I can’t promise I won’t fight back; I think I have the upper hand if we’re taking agility into account.”

“Gas, actually. Though our sparring is likely much less one-sided than it was in the Seychelles,” Ocelot mused.

“Here to knock me on my ass and smoke me out?” 

        ( _The dogs are in the run out back, who’s gonna…? Maybe-… David-…? No._ )

“Seuvofloraine. It’s already in the central air system. I have no intention to fight you; we’re too old for honor and glory bullshit, Miller.”

“Hm.” He scanned his body for anything amiss. Nothing yet. Must be a low concentration 

        ( _Nadine’s gonna kill me deader than I am already. Catherine- fuck._ )

“I was going to just place the canisters and leave it at that, but being a bit more personal seemed like the polite thing to do.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Miller, but he understood. Honoring your kill, or whatever. He used to give a brief speech about it to every few batch of new recruits at Foxhound. Ocelot began to step forward, raising both hands in a gesture of ceasefire when Miller whipped around in response to the sound of spurs heading vaguely in his direction. Ocelot, despite the years, was much the same person as he’d ever been. Twin revolvers holstered, bandolier in place, silver hair over one shoulder, dressed impractically, his style shifted more toward gentleman than cowboy. There was some currently-indespensible relief for Miller in the fact that some things never changed. Ocelot took the liberty of inviting himself onto the nearest couch. Miller’s peripheral vision began to warp. He stumbled slightly.

“Sit. You might last longer.” Ocelot jerked his head, beckoning. Miller reluctantly obliged, either unwilling or unable to look him in the face. Ocelot held eye contact without issue. Pressed for time, Miller stammered out the main question that had been making cinders in the back of his mind since the dissolution of Diamond Dogs.

“How is he- The Phantom, not-“

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“V’s in Zanzibarland, last I heard.”

“After everything he put him through…”

“Not everyone has your capacity to sustain a grudge, Miller. Given the circumstances at the time, however, it was probably the easiest thing for you to hold,” Ocelot spoke idly, without a shred of regard for the weight his words held. Pain seared through the phantoms living in Miller’s prosthetic limbs.

“I can’t beleive you’re going to be the last person I ever see,” Miller groaned ( _Should I tell him where the Will and Testament are?_ )

“Fitting, isn’t it? Although, we did talk about this, after-“

“ _Yeah_ ,” Miller barked. Ocelot chuckled. Miller’s proprioception started to go, followed by most of his auditory processing.

“Less than an hour. Less than half, most likely,” Ocelot warned (Of course he’s immune.)

“Legal documents are in the-“

“I know,” ( _Did he actually just_ purr?) “everything’s accounted for,  _Kaz_.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anger, hm? You’re progressing through the stages fairly quickly. Interesting.”

“Grief isn’t linear, asshole.” ( _I’m trying to die with dignity but you’ll probably tell everyone I went out like a coward- I can’t breathe can’tbreathecan’tbreathe breathe_ )

“The only thing that needs sorting,” Ocelot continued, ignoring him, “is what you want this to look like-”

Post-mortem was on the further axis of things orbiting in Miller’s mind. He let his head fall into his hands. No use in keeping up appearances.

“Are you not feeling this?” He asked, incredulous.

“A little,” he admitted as he stood, suddenly. He knelt to grab Miller’s legs and hoisted his failing body to lie flat on the couch, purposely stroking his left calf in the process,

“So the arm isn’t just for show. I’m sure it scares the recruits shitless. You told me you didn’t want bionics, years ago, but I suppose now that you don’t have The Phantom to upstage-“

“Shut up,” Miller groaned through gritted teeth. Ocelot knelt again, too close, his breath on Miller’s face.

“The Phantom is dead,” he whispered, menacing. “You wouldn’t beleive who did the handiwork. You’ve made quite the soldier out of David,” he pulled away, smirking. More pain flushed through Miller’s prosthetics before he realized- this was the same tone of voice he’d heard countless times in Ocelot’s interrogations. ( _Inducing panic for faster inhalation? I thought manipulating a dying man would be below you. This is a new level of depravity._ ) Coherent sentences were beyond his ability. A scoff had to suffice. The meaning was clear, despite.

“It’s not a lie,” ( _for once,_ ) “are you ready to truly experience life outside of heaven?” Ocelot towered over him, arms spread in a theatrical gesture. ( _Well fuck._ )

( _It’s not like you won’t be right there with us, in time._ )

Miller was struggling to stay conscious,

        ( _Should I die hating you?_

_Or were you just another cog in his plans? Another corpse he’d stepped over to-_ )

starting to retch. Ocelot haphazardly tossed the nearest throw blanket over his own shoulder and knelt to roll Miller onto his side, leaning into the couch for support. Miller tried to prop himself up enough to retch and spit into the blanket. Ocelot handed it over and Miller vomited hot acid, telling himself he’d be fine if he got enough out, if he could purge absolutely everything. Ocelot didn’t point out the strings of spit or tears in his eyes from the strain.

“ _Eto ne povredit namnogo dol'she_ ,” Ocelot murmured  ~~ as if this was just business ~~ , pretending he wasn’t patting Miller’s back one last time. Ocelot’s hands came to rest on his head, his arm.

“‘ _Big Boss can go to hell_ ’. Did you know you’d be there to meet him, Kazuhira?”

Blurred grey eyes and white hair hovering above him were the last things Miller saw before his vision went and his hands shook too much to hold the blanket. Somewhere he felt Ocelot dab his chin dry and press his jaw to clear out his mouth. He heard a sigh. Felt the hand on his forearm slide down into his palm. Gloved fingers smoothing long strands off of his clammy forehead. A baritone hum vibrating through his chest as his whole body spasmed against Ocelot in a dying seizure, the tune distantly familiar,

_Oh no, not me_

_I_ ~~ _never_ ~~ _lost control_

One of the few things you were always right about, John.

 ____

Ocelot stepped out of the house to remove the canisters and clear his lungs, but waited until nightfall to make the trek across the open field to a truck concealed behind the treeline. Manoeuvring through the packed-down trails gave him time for reflection, had there been anything to reflect on. A job he’d known was coming. Mission complete. Nothing more to it.

_Another day in a war without end._

**Author's Note:**

> I THINK the chronology lines up? I tried, lads.


End file.
